Broken hearts, broken bowls (I survived the tenth shift. It took a lot of biting my tongue but I did.)

PJ made me a snack today when I got home. A small bowl of spicy pistachios, his pocket knife with which to open them and a fresh glass of lemonade, made with less sugar than most people like, or so I'm told.

I like you more lately. 

See? I told you I'm becoming a better person by working. 

No, but by working you're usually too tired now to argue with me about the dinner menu. He winks and then frowns. You sure you won't cut yourself, because Lochlan will murder me if he finds out I gave you that knife to-

Oh my God, PJ. Seriously. I spend all day long around huge butcher knives now.
 (They are the only thing that can cut through the moderate-burned pies the cook churns out morning and noon. Seriously.)

Tell him you stole it them. Have my back. 

I always have your back. I wink, worried for a microsecond that my eye might be joined by the other one, and that they might both just opt to remain closed for the duration. To my relief they act normally. Thank you for the snack. 

See you in a bit, Jellyfish. I am dismissed to carry my dishes out to the orchard to the swing, where I sit in the shadow of the tree to eat and then fly for a little while. Just until I feel like I can answer with a quick-witted reply when they ask how my day was. Otherwise the tears will continue and then everyone is angry and frustrated at me and at themselves.

Where have you been going? 

The swing is occupied when I arrive. Jake slows to a lazy circle on the swing, not holding on, squinting at me in the sun. My knees buckle and I almost upset the bowl but he reaches out to steady me. I can see the ocean right through his face, a lone sailboat fighting the current from within his right dimple. His face is a whirlpool and I get sucked right in. I'm drowning and the only thing that will be left of me is this untouched lemonade.

I have a job now. 

Yes. Sam told me. 

There goes the bowl. And the glass too, for good measure.

He...can see you too?

No, but he prays to me sometimes. To my spirit for guidance. 

I think that will be a good explanation to calm the fluttering of my heart and hands but somehow it just makes it worse. Oh. I see. I say it slowly.

You understand this isn't how you have relationships in the real world you're so eager to be a part of. 

It's a long story, Jake. 

I have time, Princess. Tell it to me.

I drop PJ's open knife on my foot. May as well spill all the bad blood while I'm at it, right?

Jesus, Mary and Joel.

A break?

A day off. 

From me? The only person who actually doesn't try to keep you sick, to bring you out of your comfort zone but keep you well within a safe environment so you can make some improvement? You always fight it, Bridget but deep down you know better. You're always going to struggle against that regression. They set you up to depend on them for everything-

There's nothing wrong with that- (also? He lies.)


When it turns out like this, yes, there is something deeply wrong with it. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Sam-

I'm not. I'm trying to help you, Bridge. I'm in the most precarious place of all trying to balance my job with our relationship-

Have a good day at work. I can't do it. I don't want to talk now. He is older, more experienced and has more miles on him than Jacob ever will and yet when he says the same words it destroys my resolve and I don't want to work on anything. Don't want to be anything. And I certainly don't want to remember anything about life before the Collective all assembled in one place for good.

Though I keep saying it's not for good and every single time I am corrected.

(It is, Bridge.)

(Don't worry, Neamhchiontach.)

(We're not going anywhere.)

Would you go back and change it if you could? Joel asks over coffee, hashbrowns, bacon and eggs that got cold because this restaurant doesn't warm the plates in the oven before putting the food on them so that everything stays hot longer. I try to make butternauts and they don't form properly, butter blobs laying every which way on my plate. What a mess. What a fucking mess.

Change what? 

Being raised by wolves. 

No. 

You sure you don't want to think about that?

I have. And the answer is still no. 

Then why won't you listen to them when they ask you to stay home? 

I shrug. I'm stubborn...and...

And?

Maybe I'm helping them get over their fears too. So we can all be better people. 

That's pathetic. 

He's looming over my shoulder as I bring up my deposit on my bank app to show him. I got my first paycheque.

I was really proud. I made almost five hundred dollars. And that doesn't even include the tips I brought home each afternoon.

Just end this farce. I'll top up your account daily, if you like the thrill of it. It'll be far more, however. 

You've missed the point. 

Oh, I don't believe I have. It's been several weeks, Bridget. I think we should stop talking about ghosts and go back to talking about you putting in your resignation, or whatever a job like that requires. I have people who know the provincial labour code if you need advisemen-

I'm not quitting. 

You're digging yourself a hole for what? Pocket change? 

I'm trying to become a better person. 

You're already the best person, Neamhchiontach. You've brought life to this point, to the people on it and we miss you dearly while you're gone. I'm watching you throw yourself into one hole after another on a daily basis all the while ignoring the terms of our settlement. 

My pay doesn't even cover the cellphone bill so if you're worried about supporting me I'm pretty sure you still are. 

So why continue?

I told you a hundred times over already. 

He looks down for a moment and then back to me. His face is soft but his eyes are hard. I think it's time to quit now, Neamhchiontach. It's phrased as a gentle suggestion but it's very clear.

I told you it's none of your business. And the second restaurant is busier and less friendly, just to turn your screws. 

Good, Batman can buy that too. 

The owner isn't selling it. 

Anyone can be bought. 

See, I thought you were learning the opposite of that. For some people out there, money isn't their endgame. 

Money is the only end game. 

So by that logic you're complete? 

You're easier when you're mute. 

You're easier when you go away, Diabhal. 

This wasn't meant to be a conversation where you break my heart, Bridget. 

Hey, it's the club we run here. 

How do I make you understand this is so very temporary you won't have time to get your apron dirty? 

Unless you lock me in a room I'm working for the time being, and I'll decide when I stop. 

I didn't want to resort back to force but as you've reminded me, it's the only way to get you to do anything, isn't it?

Two steps forward, ten years back.

You found me drifted out to sea
It's automatic
It's telepathic
You always knew me
And you laugh as I search for a harbor
As you point where the halo had been
But the light in your eyes has been squandered
There's no angel in you in the end

Sam didn't let up at all, telling me that, just like in the song, Jacob clipped his wings so he could come down to earth because I needed him, and when his wings grew back and he was needed he left again, knowing I was in good hands. Maybe he was sent to get me through losing Cole.

That can't be right. Back to the hitching, tear-choked morning that gets all the light sucked out of it by default, plunging us all into the abject blackness that spreads from my brain in a slow circle as his words hit their mark, leaving my head full of holes.

What kind of angel lets you fall in love with them if they're not going to stick around to see it through?

It doesn't matter, Bridge. You fall in love with EVERYONE. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

STOP LYING. Bridget's suddenly eight, just to finish this vision for you, resorting to paper-thin responses as a child does. Whatever works. BE NICE. STOP SHOVING. LEAVE ME ALONE. MOM, BAILEY'S BUGGING ME.

That brings Lochlan out of the woodwork. (He knows that Bridget best. Sam hardly knows her at all.)

He's not wrong. But it's okay. I promise.

Okay? No. It isn't okay. It's not okay. Your promises are as shot through full of holes as my head right now. Blackness is pouring out of his mouth and I can't hear him anymore. Stop it. STOP IT. STOP IT. 

Neamhchiontach. 

The word that acts like a light in the dark. The absolution a spotlight on a life that saw me taking fault for everything that's ever happened when I shouldn't have.

I whirl around and Caleb is in the door.

Not a good time, Diabhal. Lochlan's got it. Under control. Yeesh.

Just in time, you mean. He doesn't look at Lochlan at all, instead holding his hand out to me. Come, Bridget. 

I take a few steps and put my hand out and he closes his around mine. There. We'll go escape for a bit and you'll feel better.

Jesus, Bridget-

ENOUGH. Caleb finally addresses Lochlan directly. I don't know what you're doing but you need to stop. This is the second time in a week I've had to step in and if things don't change I'll be in charge and you'll be banished from here. Am I clear? 

Bridget. Lochlan continues to ignore Caleb, staring at me, pleading with his eyes as if I'll magically get a grip on this flood of feelings that I would do anything to get away from today.

I stare at him without expression and then I get pulled along, out of the room.
I'm sure Caleb is right. I just need a break. I need to not have to defend every thought, every feeling, every moment. I need to think less, not more.

***

This morning things look slightly different. Lochlan isn't going anywhere. Caleb doesn't have the right to threaten him. But Sam is here and I think I need a break from Sam. Not friend-Sam, but Preacher Sam. Preacher Sam pushes too hard and I don't need that right now.

Bastard history.

August got positively..uh..cockblocked by Sam, who decided tea & porching was the theme of the evening and kind of peeled my skin off, leaving the organs of the former Bridget MacIntosh there to try and find some sort of container to maybe put her back together, or at least keep her together in. Eventually they found the skin, now shredded and transparent and all but useless, but good enough, as always, for that's how I roll.

I don't know if Lochlan is all that impressed with Sam today, if only for the condition he left me in, which isn't something you want to do in the name of helping someone, and there may have been a good shoving match in the kitchen while I sat outside eating toast in the clouds. I have the day off, don't fuck it up for me, guys, but then I heard the toaster oven hit the floor. Now we have a dent in the hardwood. Now we need a new toaster. I don't have time to buy one so someone else can do it, or we can go back to toasting things in the oven like we do when we rent a cottage that is supposedly furnished but they don't actually expect people to cook so there's no toaster.

Right.

That's dumb, isn't it? Who doesn't like toast?

Comfort food. Like comfort boys only I didn't get any August and I'm pretty sure Sam planned it that way. They have different methods of caring for the inside of my skull, which has a whole different set of instructions from the rest of me, but Sam decided I was doing GREAT and working was a wonderful way to distract and forget all about Jake. I told him I didn't plan on doing that and maybe Jake would have a word or two for Sam as well, because he's disloyal and damaging to even suggest that to me these days, and Sam implored that he knows better, that he's older and has weathered more of life than Jake ever will and I thought about it for a minute and then I went out to the orchard in the dark (don't worry, the electric fence is on, I'm free to roam) and asked Jake how old he was and he said thirty-six without hesitating and I turned and ran back to the house and I forgot a few things about the trip back and landed on my face a couple of times but I went right past Sam and inside to Lochlan with my usual snot-nosed holy-fuck face that I get when I can't believe everything has been a lie and boy, Lochlan's in a tough place trying to balance my needs with his own pragmatism and Sam's weird loyalty and August's surprise requests and Caleb's endless pressure so that started a fight and you know where that leaves us?

Yeah. A Thursday spent playing eighties ballads and indulging in the world's longest run-on sentences. The words just won't stop. If it gets any worse I'll have to stem the flow by throwing myself into the sea. That dilutes them back down to floating jumbles of letters and then I don't have to sort them out. It's a relief. I need all my energy to hold my skin together here anyway.

Newfie Surprise mens.

August was sitting on the steps of his loft when I pulled into my usual spot on the left side of the garage, in the hollow under the big tree that if you walk underneath and around to the right and up a hill behind the garage you come to the orchard, my garden, the tiny vineyard and the swing that sails out over the grass. That parking spot is the shadiest in the whole driveway so I claimed it a long time ago. Then my Porsche stays nice and cool instead of feeling like the sauna, which I don't want when I'm driving, frankly.

Hey Princess. 

I collect my bag from the passenger seat and stand up, smiling at him while I remove my name tag and throw it into the bottom of my bag.

Hey Augie!

He shakes his head but grins. Aw fuck. Don't look like that. Such a Newfie expression.

Long day?

The longest. I looked at the clock after about six hours and only six minutes had passed. 

Rough. 

It was. By Wednesdays I'm a mess, the laundry is backed up, the house is falling apart and it takes the whole rest of the week to pull everything back together. What's up? 

Just seeing if you and Loch are free later. 

Yes. I think carefully. Check with me around nine. Should be okay. 

Will do. He grins so openly and innocently it makes me feel guilty but also thrilled beyond measure to be missed so thoroughly during the days that I work. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that.

Longest. day. ever.

Worked all day, got off at three, filled the car with gas, ran some errands, dropped both kids off at work, had a shower, watered the garden, made some lunches for tomorrow (mine included), made dinner, played with my dog, did a load of laundry, mailed a letter, and sat down at eight at night to write and I'm empty. Too tired. Eye on the clock hoping the dryer is done before I'm too asleep on my feet to open it and fold everything that's inside. Still have to pick the kids up later. Oh my God. I'm not going to make it.

I have ten minutes, Locket. What should I write about?

Tell the world your husband is hot. 

Okay, then. Guess I'm done here. :)

Pride's a fickle bitch.

Worked a long shift today. So tired. Ben rubbed my legs for twenty-five minutes straight and now they're Jello but he's also the only one allowed to touch my feet. I have issues. No massages, no beauty treatments, I can barely stand to let Daniel cut my hair or Lochlan cut my bangs even. Doctors are difficult. Tattoos are alright, at least. (Side note here: my wings now look like they're part of the rest of my suit and I have had a lot of comments on them as the tips stick out the bottom of my work dress on the backs of my elbows.)

But yeah, for someone as habitually sex-addicted and affection-whoreish as I am, it's weird to hate to be touched. Or maybe it's a mark of those who belong to the Collective only. Maybe that's how you tell us from the rest of the world.

Also, I get paid this week! And as is tradition in this family, when you get your first paycheque you spend it selfishly and willfully on whatever the heck you want.

I don't know what to spend it on. I can't buy time, clearly (remember the fun of yesterday's moods). I don't buy jewelry for myself. I don't like clothes. I have enough art supplies to paint the point five times over. We got amazing pool floaties last year. I can't actually think of anything here.

Uh.

Geez.

It's not enough for a trip..unless it's a day trip. Maybe that's what we'll use it for. A trip into the interior maybe to a winery for lunch. Gas will be included in the cost because ow, it's so expensive right now. I'm going to keep dreaming on this until Friday when I see it show up in my bank account.

I can add five zeroes to what you anticipate and you could have your trip, Neamhchiontach. 

I don't reply. I like the idea of trying to plan it and not knowing if it can actually be a thing. And also now I remember why my legs hurt twice as much as they usually do today.

Spinning.

Are you complaining?

Yes, but I know my place. 

Sure?

Are you? 

I got admonished for having first world problems today. Instead of being endlessly grateful for my car, home, healthy boys and children, larder full of food, etc. etc, I had a little bit of a spoiled meltdown because the stress of not having any downtime to think for five minutes caught up and passed me, leaving me in a cloud of dust so thick I began to cough, choking on the potential of my squandered history of absorbing all the attention to be had within a twenty-mile radius. I'm not very good at balancing things, managing my free time or panicking over very normal things like flat tires, missed appointments or empty pantries. I've said that before though. I'm a planner, I'm organized and when I can't be in the way that I want, life goes nuclear for me for a bit and I have to hyperventilate myself to sleep and try again another day.

I'm not sure how people who have it all are supposed to be some sort of level, content, bland robots all the time but apparently that's how it works? Do they not worry or feel pressured or have bad fucking days, maybe? 

Of course they do. 

Well, then that's what I'm having and I don't need a lecture. 

He bit his lip. Maybe we should have gone to church. 

I laughed. Maybe. But then I'd have even less time than I do now and I just wish I could figure out the thinking part. To be able to think instead of being too tired. To be able to plan some projects or live past the end of the day ahead of me just a little. I went from living in the happily ever after to living in the moment and I need to switch it back and suddenly I can't. Maybe it's a bad time to write but I have to get something out or I won't have anything and the inside of my skull fills up with words and starts to ache and I don't know how to fix that but it usually ends up with my head exploding and the wrong words raining down on the wrong people, toxic clouds of letters rearranged with meanings they were never meant to represent, and then I don't have a face anymore and no one can see me and-

Leave her with me. She'll be fine tomorrow. Caleb's voice cuts through the chatter and my body goes into some sort of thankful, resigned flight mode. That's how it works.

Fairy tales and princesses, fires and princes.

Lochlan caught the nightmare after dark, adding weight to her limbs, slowing her down in the way that she responds best, and when she slept, she turned back into me. I harbour no guilt for my daydreams, as they were encouraged, cultivated and excused and you can't just waltz into someone's brain, cut the music and make sweeping changes unannounced.

Lochlan knows that but he has his own demons to fight and so the struggle endures.

I broached the subject of finishing the gardening this weekend and he laughed a soft laugh with a sinister edge that I promptly sawed off.

You can come too. 

Three's a crowd, he countered.

Never. We're inclusive here. Shots fired and.....man down.

Touché.

Don't challenge my simple needs, Loch. 

Don't make me share my beautiful life with the overbearing legacy of the man that had it and threw it all away. 

He didn't, he just borrowed your life and it didn't fit him-

Oh, SEMANTICS, Peanut. I hate him for what's he's done. 

Oh, but you accept the Devil. 

I do not. 

Semantics, Dóiteáin. 

He pulls me in underneath his arms and plants a hard kiss right on the top of my head, shoving me away without a hug after. I frown and he says I'm impossible and I nod as if that's old information.

Are we going to plant the tomatoes or what?

Sure. And then we're going to do nothing but spend time together doing nothing. We could use a few hours of that. 

Can we rewatch Sense8? And maybe some of the royal wedding again?

Yes. We can do all that. And maybe make some pasta and have some wine. 

Ooh, fancy grownup dates. 

We could use some of that, too. 

Dates?

Being grownups. 

I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. 

Me neither. And he grins that tired grin, the one that's blurred around the edges, lined with time and space and still a thousand watts brighter than the lights on the Midway, just for me.